When Daryl imagined the future - and he had, many times - it was never nice.
He remembered the day Merle had gotten arrested for the first time. The cops had swung by, official-looking with flashing lights and a fancy car as though putting on a big enough show would change the fact that they were arresting a boy, and for as trivial a crime as stealing food from some convenience store down the street to feed himself and his brother.
They had cuffed Merle and shoved him into the cruiser, ignoring the fact that their old man was still snoring on the couch, ignoring the bottles of beer and whiskey strewn at his feet. As they'd driven away, Daryl had heard one remarking to the other, "We'll be back here soon… the other one doesn't have much of a future in a dump like this." The matter had dropped as they drove off and he had scoffed at the words, had pushed them away and dismissed them.
Later, though, in the darkness of the unlit cabin, his father still snoring on the couch and leaving him in a rare moment of peace, he had remembered them again. He had tried to think of the future and he had simply envisioned the same damn cabin, the same brown walls. The same smell of smokes tangled with booze etched into the woodwork. The same pattern of blood and bruises and scars that never healed quite right. And, eventually, on some dateless day in a year, or two, or twenty, a wooden box six feet under.
After a couple of years, he eventually realized how unrealistic that particular vision was. His father spent half his time drunk or high on the couch, and Merle was in and out of juvie (or, later, prison). When he died - it wasn't a question of if, but of when his father would finally kill him - he wasn't getting an actual burial. More likely (and, he had to be honest, more fitting for him), he'd end up rotting in the forest, food for wild animals.
Once his father died, when Merle was back in jail on yet another - and much more serious - charge, Daryl forgot that cabin way out in the woods. His envisioned future morphed into a tent out in the forest, a peaceful (and lonely) life out under the stars. Hunting for his food, same as always. A better life than that with his father, yes, but a hard one nonetheless.
He had never expected this. He hadn't anticipated happiness or safety. He definitely hadn't anticipated money in his wallet or a working motorcycle he'd bought himself or a small house of his own. He had never expected a business partner - or, hell, even a friend - like Carol.
Of course, he knew that Carol hadn't ever envisioned this for herself any more than he had. He knew that, in her head, her future was hell in suburbia, Ed as the everpresent demon lingering there until he finally killed her. And now...
Now, it was amazing to see her. She was so different in so many ways, so much happier that it was startling to see. Her short silver hair had grown out, longer than he'd ever seen it. Her eyes were brighter, actual happiness rather than the pain-filled, fever-bright way they'd had in the past. She dressed better, buying clothing in bright colors and fine materials rather than course neutrals. Her back stopped hunching, her flinching - while not gone - lessened, and she smiled wider and more frequently.
Now, hell in suburbia had taken on a far lighter tint. Now, while the future was still a reflection of the present, it held a nice little diner on the side of the road, far out near exit 109. Now, the future was a small building with the words "The Cherokee Rose" emblazoned in bright orange letters on a sign above the door.
When Carol had first broached the idea of starting a joint business, he'd thought her insane. For one thing, moving way out to the boondocks with little more than the hope of making money seemed just a little too far-fetched. Willingly choosing a Dixon as a business partner? Even worse.
Except, somehow, it had worked out. Somehow, The Cherokee Rose had taken off, sustained by the combination of a hodgepodge of animal carcasses Daryl managed to haul in on his hunting trips, the contents of the bargain shelves at their local market, and Carol's amazing cooking. Somehow, he managed to set up a successful vehicle repair business in the adjoining garage, the floor of which was now covered in half-finished projects and scattered parts.
Somehow, hell in suburbia had turned into the closest thing to heaven either of them had imagined.
He couldn't stop himself from second-guessing it. Daily, he found himself wondering what fever dream he'd fallen into, what flight of fancy was filling his thoughts so realistically. Occasionally, he wondered if he had actually died all those years ago in that cabin, or in the woods on some random hunting trip, or if their plan had gone sideways and Ed had killed them both. He half-expected to wake up one day, to return to his life of silence and loneliness.
But the days dragged on without any sign of ceasing, without a glitch (beyond the occasional failed hunt or difficult repair job). They were happy for the first time in so long, and it slowly became more real, more grounded in fact than in fantasy.
He should have known that getting complacent was a problem. He should have expected the official-sounding knock on the door, the brisk Southern voice with its drawling professionalism.
He shouldn't have been surprised to see a Sheriff's deputy standing at their door.